


don't know where I'm gonna land

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF, Majo no Takkyuubin | Kiki's Delivery Service
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Community: disneycookleta, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:52:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes you have to wobble before you stand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't know where I'm gonna land

**Author's Note:**

> written for the lj community disneycookleta.

Dave's just settled at his easel, canvas stark and white in front of him and fingers poised over a mug full of paintbrushes when there's a timid knock at his door.

Annoyance flares inside him for a moment - he'd planned to spend the bulk of that rainy night working on a new project, and wanted to start in on it before his inspiration had a chance to die off - but then he realizes that really, there's only one person who would even be out here this late, or at all, and he could use the kid's help. After all, he thinks with a wry chuckle, Arch is the inspiration for this new piece, anyway.

"Coming!" It takes more effort than it should to get across his small living space to the front door, used and discarded canvases scattered everywhere, clothes and scrap paper and a food carton here and there. He spends about a second being embarrassed before he remembers that Archie's been there before and could probably care less about Dave's... less than cleanly living habits.

He opens the door, expecting to see Arch standing there dwarfed in his black sweater and jeans (his "witch attire," apparently, for which Dave had teased him mercilessly), Hawthorne curled around his shoulders, jade eyes peering at him curiously. She doesn't seem to know what to think of him yet, and hates the crows that gather around his cabin, but she's as much a familiar fixture there as Archie is nowadays, ever since they both literally fell out of the sky (he still doesn't quite know the whole story behind _that_ yet. Archie just looks embarrassed when he asks).

What he gets instead is a soggy, miserable looking seventeen year old, baggy sweater weighted down with water, clutching two jagged pieces of broomstick to his chest and eyes glassy and downcast. Hawthorne is nowhere in sight.

Dave stares, more than a little dumbstruck, until a wet sniffle reaches his ears and he realizes the arms wrapped around those two broken pieces are _shaking_.

"Jesus, Arch! Get in here." He pulls the boy in by his wrist, disturbed by how quiet he's being, wondering where the hell Hawthorne is and why Arch is out here in this condition to begin with. "C'mon, just. I'll get you some dry clothes, hang on." He might as well be talking to a brick wall, the way Archie's just standing there, arms tightening around the pieces of his broken broomstick and - _jesus_ \- tears welling in his eyes. _What the hell happened?_

Dave digs in his tiny closet for something clean, pushing random art supplies and the like out of the way. He doubts he has anything that will fit well on Arch's smaller frame, but he finally settles on a pair of old sweat pants and a faded Chief's shirt. At least they'll be warm.

Archie hasn't even moved when Dave gets back to him. There's a rapidly forming puddle spreading out from the teenager's feet, water dripping from his hair and clothes. Dave feels a little lost, looking at him.

"Hey," he starts, voice soft. "Hey, c'mon, Arch. Talk to me. What happened?" He takes the jagged pieces of Archie's broom out of his arms - they tighten for a split second before sagging, releasing their grip - and sets them aside. "Archie? _David_. C'mon, here." He wraps the boy's hands around the spare clothes, gently nudging him in the direction of the bathroom. "Go change, okay? You can set your wet clothes on the tub to dry."

He doesn't even know if Arch understands what he's saying, but at least he's moving, sneakers squelching with rainwater with each slow, measured step.

The moment the door closes behind him, Dave lets out a gust of breath, running a hand through his hair as he tries to just _think_. What in the _fuck_ was wrong with Archie? The last time he'd seen him the teenager had been all smiles, telling Dave about his new delivery service, how he was getting _so many new customers, gosh! I just hope I don't mix any of them up_ , and how he loved helping Brooke and her husband in the bakery, how relieved he was that he'd been able to meet someone so _nice_ , how the room Brooke was letting him use was _pretty dusty? Haha, I don't mind, though! It feels almost like home now_.

He'd never met a witch, before Archie. Before _David_. The nickname had been Dave's idea, back when they'd first met. Arch hadn't seemed thrilled about it at first ( _"It, um, kind of makes me sound like an old man?"_ ) but Dave likes to think it's grown on him.

Dave had heard stories about witches, of course, knew that every town had one, at some point or another. There were those that specialized in potions, medicinal brews, those that could control the weather or see into the future, fortune tellers and palm readers alike. He'd always wanted to meet one, but it was more passing curiosity then anything else that fueled that desire. Until he met Archie, anyway.

Archie was... different, in every conceivable way. He was clumsy and soft-spoken and blushed at the drop of a hat. It was easy to overlook him if you didn't know him, easy to see his small stature and honest face and mistake him for naive, someone that couldn't stand up for himself, maybe someone who needed to be protected.

Dave had nearly made that same assumption himself, back when he'd first seen Archie crash headlong into the forest canopy, a group of crows cawing and screeching behind him. 'A delivery gone awry,' he'd said, when Dave had shooed the birds away and asked him what had happen. That and something about needing to get his cat back.

For a while there Dave had just figured Archie's only ability was to fly. Badly, at times, but still. But when he'd asked, a few days after that first hectic meeting, Archie had nervously told him the truth, tripping and falling over his words the entire way.

_"It's, um. I sing? I can make things sort of... happen, when I do? I'm still, uh, trying to figure it out."_

After Dave had taken a moment to react to that - with a succinct and rather abrupt " _No shit!_ " - he'd cajoled Archie into giving him a demonstration (because really, as varied as a witch's power was, magic singing of any kind was just crossing the line into unbelievable territory).

But then Archie had hummed an unfamiliar melody, something airy and light and clear, and a vase of wilted flowers sitting on Dave's windowsill had burst into bloom, just like that. If Dave hadn't known better, he would have called the expression on Arch's face after that unaccountably smug.

He was still learning what he could do with it, apparently, was meant to spend this year of his witch training honing the craft, developing it into something he could use for the rest of his life, like his sister with her potions, his mother with her medicinal herbs and brews.

 _I want to make them proud, you know?_ , he'd said, and hell, who didn't understand that drive?

"C-Cook?"

Dave shakes his head, bringing himself back to the present and the boy standing in his bathroom doorway, fingers curled into the hem of his borrowed shirt and looking more miserable than ever.

 _Shit_. Dave can't stand to see him look like that, not if there's even a tiny chance he can fix it.

"C'mon, Arch." He takes the thick quilt off his bed, scattering the papers that had been resting there all over the room before he wraps it around the younger man's shoulders, covering him head to toe. His heart lifts a little at the tiny smile he gets in return, even if it is slightly muted by the tear tracks still prevalent on Archie's cheeks. "Now, would you tell me what happened? How did your broomstick break?"

Archie seems to crumble inward, cheeks flushing. "I-I. I don't know what's wrong with me," he breathes, eyes wet. "I. My powers are... I'm _losing_ them, Cook."

-

David doesn't - he doesn't know why he's here, why he thought this would be a good idea. It's not like Cook can do anything about.. about this. He can't make David's witch's power come _back_.

Oh gosh, he. He doesn't know what's _happening_. Everything had been doing so well, with the bakery and his deliveries and just. He thought he was _fine_. And, and it was difficult sometimes, yes, when he had so many orders and he never though he'd get them done and it was like, like flying wasn't easy anymore. There were times when he would have to struggle just to get his broomstick into the air, when before he never even had to think about it.

Even _singing_ wasn't... He couldn't do it anymore. He'd freeze now, if he even tried. He couldn't feel that pull that he always used to be able to, couldn't think of a single note.

And then he'd stopped being able to understand Hawthorne, no matter how much he'd beg her to just... _talk_ to him, please! All he could hear were meows. Her voice couldn't even reach him anymore.

Hours ago he'd taken his broom and raced to the nearest open field near the bakery, heedless of the wind and rain striking the ground, focused only on kicking off the ground and hoping, _praying_ , that this too hadn't been taken from him.

But he'd crashed back down to earth every single time, until finally his broomstick - the one his mother had given him before he'd left home, the one they'd both worked so hard to make together - had broken in two.

He doesn't know why he'd walked to Cook's, after that, cradling his broomstick to his chest. He just. He hadn't wanted to go back to the bakery, back to Brooke's concerned eyes and Hawthorne's silence. He wanted to be some place where he wouldn't have to _talk_ , or at least where he could do it without the proof of his loss staring him in the face everywhere he turned.

And Cook was... Cook was his friend, had helped him during that first disastrous delivery when he'd dropped that kid's birthday present into the forest, had offered an open door and a ready smile ever since.

And Cook wasn't a witch by any means, but he still had this... this ability, this power to just _create_ that amazed David. His sketches and his paintings, all scattered throughout the little cabin he called home, were all so incredible. That someone could make something so beautiful with their own two hands, with just their imagination as their guide - that was as much a kind of magic as the ability to read fortunes, or make flowers grow, or brew any kind of potion imaginable.

He sung, too, all the time, and played guitar like he was born for it. Music was as much a second nature to him as painting, as breathing. It was just another reason that David, um.

But he can't think about that, now now. Maybe not ever.

"I used to be able to fly without even having to think about it," he says quietly, nursing the cup of hot cocoa that Cook had pushed into his hands a few minutes after his hasty confession.

They're both sitting on the floor, backs against the bed and blankets across their laps. A lantern sits in front of them, illuminating a circle of light around their makeshift pallet. It's... it's nice. Warm.

Cook sips from his own mug, expression thoughtful. "What changed?"

"...I. I'm not sure." David thinks about it, tries to pinpoint the moment when his powers shifted from being so fluid to being so. Out of reach. "I just. I don't feel like I'm doing it for _me_ anymore. Or, I don't know. It feels almost like a... like a chore, now."

Cook 'hmm's. "Maybe you're just working at it too hard," he says, leaning back. "Take a break."

David blinks. "A break?"

"Yeah. I doubt your boss would mind, if that's what you're worried about." He sets his drink aside, bumping their shoulders together in the process. (David tries to ignore the way it makes his heart jump.) "Do you know that sometimes I'm unable to paint at all?"

"What?" David can't even imagine that. "Really? What do you do to fix it?"

Cook laughs, eyes scrunching up. "It's not about _fixing_ anything, Arch. It's more like... Sometimes you just have to stop thinking about it, stop trying to force it when it's not there. Do other things, you know? Go on long walks, read books, try something you've never done before. Before you know it, you'll be flying again."

David's fingers fidget against his mug, soaking up its warmth. "Do you... do you really think that's all it takes?" he asks, voice hushed. It can't be that easy, can it?

"Maybe. Maybe not. But." Cook reaches over and ruffles his hair before David can stop him (oh my gosh, he _hates_ that). "You won't get anywhere if you keep trying to force it. Give it some time, Archie."

David looks down at his cocoa. He wants to believe that Cook is right, that if he just takes a break things will go back to the way they were, that he'll be able to fly and sing and it won't feel so fake anymore, but. He doesn't know if he can.

"...What if it doesn't work?"

-

"Arch... " For a moment Dave's at a loss for what to say. But then it hits him. "You know, I'd always wanted to be an artist." Dave waits until Archie's looking at him again, gesturing to all the paints and canvases and brushes scattered around the cabin. "I'd paint day and night, all the time. Sometimes I'd even fall asleep at my easel. And then one day, I suddenly couldn't paint anymore. I'd try and try, but everything I did never seemed to be any good. It was like I'd lost my ability."

"That, that sounds like me."

"Yeah," Dave agrees, hoping that Arch sees the point in all this when he's finished. "It's exactly the same. I kept trying to reach for that part of me that could create like I used to, but it just wasn't there. Eventually, I figured out why.

"I hadn't figured out _why_ I wanted to paint. I had to discover my own style, my own purpose. Think of it like... What do you rely on, when you fly?"

"My... my spirit. We fly with our spirits."

"Trusting in your spirit, that's it! That same spirit is what makes me paint, and makes Brooke bake. It's the same thing that makes everyone do whatever it is that they love. But we all have to find our own inspiration, Arch. Sometimes it's not easy."

Archie sips at his cocoa, looking thoughtful. Dave waits him out.

"I -" he starts, glancing at Dave out of the corner of his eye. "I guess I never really thought about _why_ I wanted to do this. To make my family proud, of course, and to be a better witch, but. I've never thought about it beyond that. I got so.. so caught up in all the training, and then in the delivery service, but I guess... I guess I need to find my own inspiration."

"And you will." There's no doubting the conviction in Dave's voice - this is one thing he's absolutely sure of.

Archie glances at him then, looking unsure and a little nervous, and Dave has about half a second of preparation before there are arms wrapping around him, and Arch's forehead is pressed to his chest.

Dave doesn't know what he's more surprised about - the fact that Archie, who has a personal bubble about half a mile wide would initiate such close contact, or how utterly out of his element he feels here. It doesn't help that he's suddenly hyper aware of how _warm_ Archie is, how natural it feels to have him so close and _shit_ , this is not a train of thought he should be following right now.

"U-um." Arch's voice is muffled and nearly too hard to hear over the ridiculous pounding of his own heart (fuck, he hopes Archie can't hear that). "Thank you, Cook. For all this."

Dave wants to tell Arch he doesn't have to thank him for anything, wants to tell him about the new piece he's working on, that he may have found a new source of inspiration thanks to the witch that literally fell into his life.

But instead he wraps his arms around Archie, thinks of this kid's drive and determination and how much joy he always seemed to get out of using his powers, and vows to do whatever he can to help him get them back.


End file.
